


A Case of You (Ineffably Yours: Stolen Nights VI)

by SecondHandNews



Series: Ineffably Yours: Short Stories [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondHandNews/pseuds/SecondHandNews
Summary: What happens in Morocco stays in Morocco. Except when it doesn’t.





	1. You're In My Blood (Like Holy Wine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The playlist for this short story is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3uoktPLjyPD3T30bt9oK57?si=LiXLmAh8TWGPjQSNA-7LXg

**1741\. Marrakesh, Morocco**

Aziraphale closed his eyes and waited for the crash of wood against stone as the cart overturned and slammed into the crowd, skittering across the ground as if it was a feather. The sound came, hand in hand with the thundering of panicked footsteps, the screams and, once the dust had settled, the cries for help.

_Just as scheduled_. He slipped out from the side street. There was no time to be lost. The cart was on its side, one wheel spinning in the wind as the other hung limply, almost torn clean from its axel. Behind it were the twelve figures he had been told to expect. _Heal them all_, he had been told, _it is just a warning, the accident_. Aziraphale hadn’t asked what the afternoon shoppers had done to deserve such a brutal warning, had learned long ago that heaven’s answers were never satisfying. It was better not to know sometimes. Head down, job done, onto the next one.

He knelt down next to a young girl whose breath was hitching sharply between sobs, cradling an arm that jutted out at a seemingly impossible angle. Sweeping a hand over her elbow and resting the other gently against her cheek, he whispered words of comfort until the bone clicked back into place and the child looked down in disbelief.

“Mister…” She trailed off. The angel was gone.

It was difficult work, healing. To take away physical pain was simple enough but Aziraphale would wager most of heaven had no personal experience with taking away emotional pain, drawing out hopelessness and fear. Every action had its price, after all. The energy didn’t just burn away, all he could do was move it from them to himself. On that humid summer day in a small square in Marrakesh, Aziraphale knelt close to the injured and left a trail of confused relief in his wake. _A_ _miracle_, they began to cry.

Aziraphale watched them clamber to their feet, dusting themselves off and lifting mysteriously healed limbs in wonder. They would move them once, twice, stare around in search of any evidence that they hadn’t imagined the crunch of bone as the cart careened into them, any telltale blood streaked across the stone.

The angel sat against a curved tree that hung over the square like a guardian, slats of dry bark digging into the skin of his lower back, forearms resting on his knees as he fought to steady his breathing. Leaning his head back against the tree trunk, he squinted up at the sky. _It’s done_, he thought, shuddering under the pain that beat its way around his body. _Please, let me rest now._

Aziraphale was good at healing, as it turned out, exceptionally so. Not every angel was. It was a gift, to heal, and one the Almighty bestowed only occasionally. It was fluid, too, needed to be nurtured or it could fade away as easily as dust in the wind. The archangels were loathe to lose a healer, made sure Aziraphale flexed the muscle often enough that he would never lose the skill. It was too much, he’d told them, too often. He needed time afterwards to put himself back together, to step over the puddles of pain and grief and find his way back to himself.

A scream came from across the square, a woman staring down in horror as a small crowd began to gather around a motionless shape on the ground. The driver of the cart had been flung across the square during the accident, now lay crumpled in a heap, a slow trickle of blood leaking freely from one ear, his eyes closed and breathing shallow.

_Twelve_, Aziraphale thought, bracing one hand against the tree as he tried and failed to pull himself to his feet, _they told me there were only twelve_. He sank back down, breath coming in quick gasps as his legs trembled beneath him.

And then he felt a rush of relief drape over his body, a warm glow that slowly stroked away some of the pain. He closed his eyes and wondered dreamily if another angel was in the area. It didn’t happen very often. In fact, it had happened exactly twice in almost six thousand years. He let his head drift to one side and opened an eye, laughed quietly as he saw a lanky figure look once over each shoulder before cutting across the square and crouching down next to the injured driver. He closed his eyes again, knew the driver was in safe hands.

His journey on Earth might not have included many chance encounters with other angels but demons? Or, to be more accurate, one specific demon? That was a different matter.

“Napping on the job? Gabriel won’t be happy.”

Aziraphale smiled, opened his eyes to find Crowley standing above him, hands on his hips.

“Lucky you were in the area.”

“Lucky.” The demon laughed, extended a hand and pulled the angel to his feet. He wrapped one arm around Aziraphale’s waist, closed his eyes for a second to focus on nothing other than the angel’s reassuring weight leaning against him. _How long has it been_, he wondered? _Nine years? Ten?_ “Let’s get lunch. My treat.”

***

“They’re working you too hard.” Crowley pushed a wedge of red pepper around his plate, chasing it with his fork until he tired of the game and speared it.

Opposite him, Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and shrugged noncommittally. Crowley was right, of course, they _were_ working him too hard but he wasn’t going to admit that in broad daylight. Anybody could be listening.

“Take a break, angel. You must be due some time off.” The demon leaned back on his chair, jabbed his fork in the direction of the open door, where the heat of the late afternoon sun radiated through the little restaurant they found themselves in. “You’re in the perfect place for it.”

Aziraphale considered the idea, had been thinking it himself for a while now. Time to himself. To sit and idly watch the world go by, nothing more strenuous on the agenda than getting lost in the winding streets and finding a new spot each evening where he could get stuck into a new book. It had been too long, he realised, since he’d selfishly carved out a notch of time purely for relaxation.

“You’ve been being dastardly in the Caribbean, I assume.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, doing his very best impression of an angel who thoroughly disapproved of demonic mischief.

“Mmm,” Crowley murmured an affirmative through a mouthful of sweet wine. “Lovely place, Tortuga. _Gritty_.”

“Yes, I can only imagine.” The angel watched him for a moment, let his eyes follow Crowley’s movements across the table. He never stopped. Even when it looked like he was still, one hand would be tapping out a silent rhythm on his thigh, or his heel would be jumping up and down lightly against the ground. _All that energy_, Aziraphale thought. _Boundless_.

They were opposites in that respect, opposites in _most_ respects, come to that. Aziraphale liked to stand still, liked to feel his metaphorical roots uncurl and settle into the ground beneath him. A home, that was what he had been missing, one singular place that served as his focal point, somewhere to return to when the work was done. He had been roaming for too long, he realised. It was draining, the endless trek from place to place without space to breathe in between.

_A holiday first and then, perhaps_, he thought with a smile, _a home_.

Every angel in heaven above would happily turn a blind eye but it was a demon who gently told him he was working too hard, suggested he take a break. Aziraphale closed his eyes to the realisation as Crowley chattered excitedly about his upcoming trip to London, wine glass held close to his lips.

It had begun to grow dark, the light fading away over the hours until the restaurant owner moved from table to table like a ghost, lighting the candles that cast flickering shadows up the restaurant’s walls. It gave the place an otherworldly feel, as though the street they walked out to might be different from the one they walked in from.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been holed up in there for long enough to drink their way through a couple of bottles of wine, alongside sampling half of the menu. Aziraphale, in particular, had taken a shine to the food, munching his way through lamb tagine ladled over fluffy couscous, grilled chermoula cod and plate after plate of buttery harcha, used primarily to mop up any leftovers on his plate, and then Crowley’s, for good measure.

The demon watched him from behind dark glasses, the tired lines that bracketed his mouth, the way his fork juddered in his hand as his fingers shook. It was almost imperceptible, that bone-deep exhaustion, but he could feel it. He always could. Some sort of incessant ethereal radar, he assumed, a hangover from the days before he fell. They could be on opposite corners of the globe, often were, in fact, and he could still sense him out there, in the moments where he gave his mind free rein.

“Gentlemen, may I bring you dessert? We have a special selection tonight.” The restaurant owner hovered by their table, dashed off a list of puddings that had Aziraphale staring up at him wide-eyed with longing.

When it came to Crowley’s turn to order he shrugged, swirled one hand in the space between them. “Just bring another spoon, I think we’re covered.”

As the restaurant owner bustled back into the kitchen, Aziraphale leaned across the table, his voice a frantic whisper. “I did _not_ say we could share.”

“You ordered four desserts, angel, I think there’ll be enough.”

There was, as it turned out, enough. Four plates were stacked high with pastries and warm slices of cake, baked figs and a coiled filo pastry swirl that was called, to Crowley’s chagrin, a snake cake.

“Any opportunity to remind me,” he huffed, cutting through the flaky outer shell with the side of his spoon.

“You have to try this,” Aziraphale groaned through a mouthful of honeyed figs, scooping the last one off of the plate and brandishing it in Crowley’s direction.

“Couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” the demon replied, patting a flat stomach. _Go on_, he teased silently, _ask me again_. It was a rare occurrence, Aziraphale asking him for anything at all, and he tried to eke desire out wherever he could.

Aziraphale waved the spoon in a small half-circle, tutted as a glob of honey dripped down the metal handle and onto his thumb. “You _must_, in lieu of oysters.”

Crowley had hoped the angel had forgotten about their tradition, thought his tiredness might render him more forgetful than usual. As it turned out, a bottle of wine and a six course meal was surprisingly rejuvenating. There was a blush in Aziraphale’s cheeks, a pinch-sized swell of pink that he liked to think might have been down to the company, was most probably down to the wine.

They finished the meal with a pot of tea, the rich perfume of rose dissipating into the air as Crowley poured two cups. Aziraphale closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and let the heady aroma wash over him.

“I needed this.” The angel’s words were a purr against the lip of the cup, both hands wrapped around it as he let the china’s warmth flow through him. It had been sweltering that day but the nights were cold. Aziraphale didn’t feel the cold, not really, but he was sensitive to the humans around him, took his cues from their behaviour. It had helped him fit in over the years. Funny, he often thought, how much easier it was to blend in on Earth. “Thank you, Crowley, for earlier. I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

“Oh, you’d have saved him, angel.” Crowley waved away the gratitude with one hand. “Might have wiped yourself out for a couple of weeks but you wouldn’t have left him there to die. It’s not in your nature.”

“What’s your excuse then? I thought you could get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

Aziraphale had a point. Saving humans, taking away their pain, it wasn’t strictly part of a demon’s job description. “I guess it will have to be our little secret.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll add it to the list, shall we?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as he drained the last dregs of tea from his cup. It had become a rather extensive list over the years. Still, millennia spent collecting secret evidence of Crowley’s sweet soul; there were worse ways to spend eternity.

“Better had.” The demon gave him a sharp nod, emptied a fistful of coins onto the waiting plate and stood to leave. He strode out of the restaurant, calling out his thanks to the chef as he ducked out into the chilly night air. Aziraphale trailed slowly after him, swallowing the first swirls of disappointment that their time together was almost over as suddenly as it had begun.

***

“London,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, as Crowley snapped his fingers to unlock the door of the guesthouse. “It’s been a while since we were there, hasn’t it?”

“The Globe.” Crowley reminded him. “Stuck to my word, didn’t I? Hamlet, more popular than ever.”

The demon pushed the door open and stepped inside, took in the little room that was his until morning. He didn’t need a place to stay, not really, could have spent the night wandering the city until he grew restless and moved on. Still, it was an old habit harking back to the early days of their unique friendship. Helpful to have somewhere to go back to on the off chance of company.

“Nightcap?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. Out on the doorstep, Aziraphale took a wary step back. He shouldn’t tease, he knew that, but watching Aziraphale get flustered was one of his favourite pastimes.

Outside in the street, Aziraphale was fighting an internal war that he’d been locked in for centuries. Millennia, even. It was madness, they both knew that, couldn’t possibly end in anything other than disaster. Even so, despite the risks, the thought of turning away felt impossible. Everything felt impossible when he was with Crowley, and yet, entirely possible at the same time. It was like staring into a forest at night, lit only by the stars. Dark, dangerous, indescribably beautiful.

_Stop it_. He looked away, down at the mosaic tiles beneath his feet, up at the cloudless night sky. _Go. If you don’t go now you never will. _In the end Crowley made the decision for him.

“Goodnight, angel.” The demon gave him one last smile and then the door was closed between them. Until next time.


	2. You Taste So Bitter (And So Sweet)

**1741\. Marrakesh, Morocco**

A low growl rumbled in Crowley’s throat as he paced around the room, feet slapping against the cold tiles as he ran both hands through his hair in frustration.

“Two hundred and forty years,” he hissed the words aloud, recounting how long it had been since the last time Aziraphale had stood at his door with that need in his eyes. “Two _hundred_ and forty years.”

It had to be Aziraphale’s decision, he knew that. That was the first rule. Unspoken, of course. The words not said, their speciality.

Crowley was bent double, tugging his shirt over his head when a quiet rap on the door echoed around the silent room. He stood up in a flash, shrugged back into the shirt and snapped his fingers until only a single candlelight remained. The freedom of darkness. The second rule.

He closed his eyes, sucked in a lungful of air and held it there in an attempt to slow his racing heart. It was always like this, that moment before, like standing on the edge of a cliff and letting the rush of the ocean air wash over you before you raised your arms, let the wind take you, and _fell_.

He swung the door open and there was Aziraphale, chest heaving as he stood on the doorstep. The only movement was the jump in his cheek as he bit the inside of his lip, the flicker of his eyes meeting Crowley’s as they stood face to face, silhouetted in the almost darkness.

Aziraphale spoke first, voice so timid his words were all but lost to the air. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

_But not doing it would be worse_, Aziraphale thought, startled at his honesty, even if the revelation had only taken place inside his head. He found himself staring at Crowley’s lips, breathed a heavy sigh, stared at them for rather a long time. Difficult to look away.

“I shouldn’t have come back,” he said finally, blinked twice to tear his gaze back to Crowley’s eyes.

“And yet here you are.” The demon looked back, impassive, as he always was in the moments before Aziraphale’s resolve faded away into the ether. It was important for both of them, they knew that, that it was the angel’s move to make. Aziraphale needed to know he was in control just as much as Crowley needed to know he was wanted.

Aziraphale took one step into the room, then another, and another, until he pressed the door closed behind him and then there was only the two of them, faintly lit by a single candle.

Crowley looked down at him, saw the fear in his eyes. It had caught him off-guard the first time, seeing Aziraphale look at him with such terror. _I won’t hurt you, angel_, he had thought, his heart sinking at the idea he could think such a thing. He had realised since that it was nothing to do with him. It was the fear of being caught, the fear of how much those stolen moments meant, of a thousand other complications that stood in their way. He was, he had come to understand, the only thing Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of.

A beat of hesitation, as there always was, the last chance to turn and walk away. And then, like the first drops of rain breathing life into sun-baked earth, Aziraphale’s fingertips found their way to his skin, tracing the outline of his face with such gentleness all he could do was close his eyes and pray that this time would finally be the beginning of everything else.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale breathed, and those three simple words held a galaxy inside them, a substitute for every declaration that still lay, as yet, unspoken.

Crowley leaned down until they were forehead to forehead, felt Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter closed like butterflies against his cheek. When he exhaled it was as though two centuries of despair, of soul-shattering loneliness melted away until he was enveloped in Aziraphale’s light. He yearned for these moments, missed them even before they were over, tried to wring out every little drop of peace he could before the angel slipped away and he was left alone again.

_Don’t_, he told himself, _don’t think about what will happen when he leaves, think about what’s happening now. He’s here. He came back for you. He knows the risk and he chose you anyway._

“You came back,” he whispered, unable to keep the thought to himself. It was everything, being wanted. He felt Aziraphale’s cheeks lift in a smile, heard the quiet exhale of a tiny laugh.

“I don’t know why that still surprises you. I will always come back for you.” The angel dropped his hands from Crowley’s face, took a half pace back and let his fingers come to rest by Crowley’s chest, curled around the neckline of his shirt. He undid one button, then another, and another, until he slid the open shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground in a heap, a slither of black fabric against the tiles.

Crowley swallowed tightly, one canine tooth jumping up and down against his lip as he forced himself to stay still. It was a torment so pleasurable it bordered on painful, standing there while Aziraphale slipped the shirt from his back and slowly ran one finger from his collarbone down to his stomach, coming to rest an inch above his hips. “I could do this every night for eternity and the sight of you would never fail to take my breath away.”

The demon reached out for his hand, clasped it in his own and brought it up to rest against his heart. He held it there, let Aziraphale feel it beat beneath his palm. _Sometimes it feels like the only reason it beats is to bring me back to you._ He kept the words safely hidden inside his mind where there was still the possibility that the angel would take his hand and whisper them back to him.

It had been so long since they’d stood like this, toe to toe, eye to eye, with only Aziraphale’s fear of persecution leaving any distance between them at all. Crowley had stopped fearing hell’s wrath long ago. After all, what could hell do to him that he hadn’t already endured? He had already been broken, had been quietly rebuilt over the millennia by an angel who hadn’t even known he was putting the demon back together, piece by piece, every time they shared a wine-fuelled lunch, or sat bickering in a sunny square, or stole away in a hidden room and spoke promises into the darkness. Promises for the future. Always the future. _One day_, Aziraphale would whisper, his fingers curling themselves in Crowley’s hair as he pressed his knee between the demon’s thighs, _one day, I swear to you. Please don’t give up on me. _Crowley would look at him, at those pale blue eyes turned stormy by the darkness. _I will never give up on you, angel. You have me, always._

One of them laughed then, neither could have said who it was, but suddenly they were both laughing against each other’s necks, giddy with the joy of being alone together, finally, after so many years. Crowley snaked one arm around the angel’s waist, pushing him lightly down onto the bed and kneeling down over him, legs straddling his hips. He undid one button of Aziraphale’s shirt at a time, could have miracled it away in a second, but he never did, liked to savour the moment, the first touch of his fingertips against the angel’s skin. He swept the soft fabric of the shirt to either side, bent his head low to press his lips to Aziraphale’s chest. He sighed at the exquisite familiarity of it all, the dangerous game they had come to perfect over the years, closed his eyes as he felt the angel’s fingers slide up into his hair.

“Perfect,” he breathed, one hand circling Aziraphale’s wrist as the angel wrapped his fingers around the demon’s forearm. “Have I told you that you are utterly perfect?”

“It’s been a couple of centuries.”

Crowley sat back, smiling. He narrowed his eyes for good measure, didn’t want to let Aziraphale off the hook completely. Two and a half centuries. It had been maddening, bordering on painful. “And whose fault is that?”

“Mine.” Aziraphale sat up, slid an arm around Crowley’s neck to pull him closer, whispering the words against his lips. The demon nudged his forehead against the angel’s brow, summoning every inch of self-restraint from his depths and then a little bit more just to be sure. “Mine, because I’m a coward. Because I’m afraid. Because this will be worth waiting an eternity for.”

“Mmm.” Crowley rocked his hips forward, and Aziraphale shot him a look that was equal parts a warning and a dare. “It had better be.”

“Magic,” the angel whispered, bringing his lips to the demon’s ear, murmuring promises that undid him with every word. “That’s what it will be, Crowley. One day, I swear to you. Brighter than every flower on the Earth, bigger than the stars. It’s all we know how to be, together.”

_Together_. It was the only word that mattered. It was the only reason to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other and walk through every day and night, bound to hell. There was hell, Crowley had come to realise, and there was _hell_. The latter was the lonely existence he had been cursed with, people taking a step away from him in the streets without knowing why they felt such fear. It was doing only evil, leaving misery wherever he went, the black cloud that followed him, that miserable shadow that only ever stepped away when he was near Aziraphale. _Together_, Crowley knew, was the reason for it all.

“Can we pretend?” Aziraphale asked, voice hesitant as if he thought Crowley might say no. _As if, _the demon thought, _as if I would ever deny you anything. _“Please. Just for a moment. Can we pretend this is the way it always is, that this is every night?”

Crowley took the angel’s face in his hands, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and nodded. It was the deepest heartbreak, this fantasy that formed the core of every secret meeting they had risked over the years, and yet, for the moments when it existed, it was the sweetest joy he had ever known.

He slid under the sheets behind Aziraphale, wrapped an arm around his waist, nestled his forehead against the angel’s hair. They lay in silence for a moment and Crowley did nothing but breathe in the scent of him, committed every nuance of it to memory, locked it away in his chest until the next lonely night when he needed a reminder of what was waiting for him, if only he could be patient enough.

“Dinner wasn’t bad, was it?” Then came his own voice, cutting through the darkness and taking them somewhere else, anywhere else, to a place where they could just _be_. “I saw a nice looking tea spot on the walk back. That could have some potential.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, smiling as he let his imagination carry him away, losing himself to the fantasy, though the snip of reality left a lump in his throat. “A pot of tea and a book, sounds like a breakfast plan, doesn’t it?”

“Hmmm.” Crowley leaned down to kiss his shoulder, then his neck, then his hair. He heard the angel exhale heavily, felt his body back a little closer until they were skin to skin, pressed against each other between the sheets. “I was thinking breakfast in bed. You need to rest, angel.”

The angel laughed, his fingers curling around Crowley’s. “Always telling me to slow down.”

“Speed demon that you are,” Crowley smiled to himself. It _was_ just a fantasy, after all, what was the harm in a little white lie? “Always going so fast.”

“I’ll take some time off, I’ve decided, when we get home.” Aziraphale’s voice was firm, as if he had any number of plans ready and waiting for them as soon as their working trip was over.

“Home.” _Where will it be this time? Where will he have dreamed up for us next?_

“Back to London.”

“Ah, of course. Right by the Globe.”

Aziraphale shook his head, felt his hair brush against Crowley’s skin. He could see it, their little house, had imagined it innumerable times over the years, so clear in his mind it was as if they’d lived there for centuries. “Near the park. A townhouse. With shutters on every window.”

“Windows that stretch wall to wall, remember? To let the light in.” Sunlit mornings, sunbeams dappling Aziraphale’s back as he woke, smiling, happy. That was what Crowley imagined. Let the light filter in, let it wake them up every morning, let the moon illuminate every night.

“Hmm. I suppose.”

“And you’ll need to tidy up your books, we’ll be buried in them soon.” He felt the angel grip his hand tighter. “Might be time we think about a second home, just for your stories. All those other worlds that you love so much.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to defend the imaginary sprawling collection that had taken over every room of the house, books tucked away in every corner until their home was more of a library than anything else, remembered after a heartbeat that there was no such thing, not really. Only on these nights, in the fantasy they let themselves disappear into when reality was too desperate to bear. He closed his eyes against the weight of realising that indulging in this beautiful make-believe life with Crowley was the closest he felt to being home. He had yearned for a home, somewhere to settle, something he could always come back to. He already had it. Home was here, with Crowley, wherever in the world that might be. It wasn’t the place that mattered, it was the soul that stood by his side, patiently giving him all the time that he needed. Homesick, that was what he felt when they were apart, longing to return to that safe place.

_I love you, angel, I love you so much more than you will ever understand. One day,_ Crowley thought, _one day I will be able to tell you all of this, and once I start I might never be able to stop. _He closed his eyes, felt tears slip free anyway, winding a treacherous path down his skin as he fought to stay silent. This wasn’t the time for tears. This was the slice of time to imagine, to dream together of everything that was to come.

It was all he wanted, a quiet life with his beloved. A garden, a home, a _life_, not a curse to inflict hate for eternity, to spew misery across the world he had helped to build with such care. Being with Aziraphale, seeing the way the angel looked at him as if he was worth the risk, it made him feel as though he was more than a demon, as if perhaps he really was worthy of a life.

It would be so simple, to be together, and he would be so happy. Indescribably, sickeningly happy every single moment until there was no time left, until there was nothing. And he wouldn’t care, he wouldn’t care when it came to the end. He would go willingly, hand in hand with the only one he had ever loved. Together, at the end, that was all that mattered.

The simple joy of walking down the street by his angel’s side, that was what he thought of as the tears came and he buried his face in Aziraphale’s hair, clinging to the fantasy as if it was a lifeline. He would meet the eyes of every single person they walked past. _Look. Look at us. This is love, this is everything that’s worth waiting for. _The quiet pleasure of being able to wake up and have somebody to whisper good morning to, to have somebody to kiss goodnight, to be able to brush his lips against Aziraphale’s and show him, finally, just how much he meant.

The last unspoken rules: the angel never stayed, had never fallen asleep by Crowley’s side, and a kiss, that elusive meeting of lips, maddeningly forbidden. _I can’t, _Aziraphale had said once, had never changed his mind since, _if I kiss you I will never be able to walk away, and then we’ll both be truly lost._

The four rules stood as the silent cornerstones of the loophole they had fallen back on for centuries. They were resolutely unspoken for the simple reason that speaking the rules aloud was precisely what would give the secret existence, would turn it into something that was a habit. And it wasn’t. There was no pattern to it, no rhythm, no prior planning. It was, and had to remain, nothing more complex than an escape that happened when the loneliness got too much.

Aziraphale had felt the shudder of Crowley’s chest against his back as he began to cry. It was that tiny tremor that tore him apart until he felt tears glisten on his own cheeks and he tried with every fibre of his being to hide it, forced his breathing to remain steady. There would be no telltale hitching of his breath, no little sob escaping his lips. One of them had to remain strong, he knew that, or else there would be nothing stopping them running away to…where? Where could they run when there was nowhere to hide?

_Why, why, why is this the world? Mother, please tell me, please show me how this is possibly how it should all work. How is this goodness? How is this the way it has to be, that the sweetest soul I have ever known pretends not to cry against my back and all I can do is say one day, my love, one day?_

He squeezed Crowley’s hand in the dark, hoped his touch could somehow express every word that he was too afraid to say. Shame bloomed in his chest as he felt Crowley return his gesture; three small squeezes, echoing three small words he couldn’t summon the courage to speak aloud. _You deserve more than this. You deserve more than unspoken confessions in the night. You deserve so much more than somebody so scared, so selfish he makes you wait, begs you for patience, forces you to stick to the rules, the stupid godforsaken rules, to do everything under the cover of darkness as if I’m ashamed. I could never be ashamed of this, my love, you are the thing I am most proud of. To love you, to really love you the way you deserve, it would be the adventure of my lifetime._

"We’ll feed the ducks,” Crowley murmured, his voice thick with tears he would never admit to crying. “Every day, angel. We’ll walk to the park, stop at the bakery…"

“Not bread.” Aziraphale sniffed, disguised it as a cough. “It’s not good for them. Oats.”

“Pocketful of oats. Oats for days. Every duck in London will watch out for us. Here they come, that couple with the oats, get ready, fellas.”

Aziraphale wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, rolling over to face Crowley, to watch the shadows on his face dance in the weak candlelight. An angel and a demon lay nose to nose under a tangle of blankets, letting the final throes of that fantasy life, that dream for the future, wash over them until they were back in that room in the little guesthouse in Morocco, and all that lay ahead of them was reality with all its mundane cruelty.

“You are the centre of everything, Crowley, my North Star,” the angel breathed, pressing a kiss to the demon’s cheek, lips catching the corner of his mouth. “Wherever I am, whatever I need, you’re how I light up the sky when it’s at its darkest.”

Crowley rolled lazily onto his back, stared up into the darkness as one hand found its way to the soft skin on the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist. “Angel, how many times have we done this?”

“Six.” _And I hold every one of them in my heart. Six nights. Six thousand years, give or take. Six times I fell for you._

“It was more of a rhetorical question but nice to know you keep count.”

“Of course I do.” Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair, dropped his voice. “Of _course_ I do. Sometimes I feel as though the only time I’m whole is when I’m with you like this.”

“What happens when this isn’t enough any more? When one night every few centuries isn’t enough to keep us whole?” _Stop, _he warned himself, _don’t push him. Patience. _He could feel the night slipping away from them already, scrambled to cling onto the dream they’d built together in the darkness, to never let it go. A dream of feeding the ducks, of grumbling about too many books but yearning to hear the stories read aloud. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really, in the scheme of heaven and hell and eternity. He wasn’t asking for the world, just his world, quiet and precious, something he would never give up fighting for. The only thing he had that was worth anything at all.

It was soft, the angel’s reply, unsure, as if he was reminding himself, first and foremost. “It has to be.”

“It’s barely enough now.”

“It _has_ to be, Crowley.” A warning then, the words louder. The fantasy dissipated around them, the last shreds of that townhouse in London evaporating away until there was only the vague promise of _someday, when things are different_.

“We don’t have to keep doing this, you know.” Crowley felt Aziraphale tense next to him, felt a hand reach for his, desperate fingers clutching for him, three short squeezes. _I love you too, Aziraphale, I love you more than I can bear, I love you more than hiding away as if this is something to regret._

“Oh?” _Please_, Aziraphale thought, _please don’t take this from me, from us. I will be braver, I promise, I just need time._

“Running away. Hiding in the darkness.” _I’m sick of running, angel, I can’t keep running, I’m so tired._

“Yes we do. You know that.” _Don’t make me keep saying it. A piece of me crumbles every time I tell you no. I can’t keep telling you no, I’m too weak, one day I’ll stumble and I’ll say yes, let’s stop running. And it will be the end of us both._

“We could run away from them instead. Go off somewhere.”

“Where? Where can we go where they won’t find us?”

“There’s so much out there, angel, so many empty worlds. What if…” He stopped, turned onto his side to face Aziraphale, the angel watching him carefully in the candlelight. “What if we started again, somewhere else? Built a better world.”

“That would be a dream.” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair back from his forehead, smiled sadly. _It’s all that keeps me going, my love, but I can’t. Not now. Not yet._ “But that’s all it is.”

“It doesn’t have to be. We could do it. We could build it together. Take everything that matters with us.” Hope swirled in his chest as he looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, saw his own pleading face reflected there, hated himself for asking the impossible. _Please say yes, angel, this time, please._

“Crowley…”

The demon shifted onto one elbow and he looked so hopeful, so alive, that Aziraphale had to look away. “We could do it, angel, together. We could do anything. I don’t care how we do it, I don’t need much, I just need you.”

“Crowley, don’t. Please.” A pounding in his chest then, a shudder of unease winding through his body. Fear. Temptation. Panic. It was too much, what he felt, it always had been. Easier to push it down. To keep it hidden was to keep it alive. When Crowley looked at him he knew the demon saw beneath the surface, saw everything that lay unspoken, and it was too much to be laid bare like that. _I can’t, I can’t, I’m not ready. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of how much I want you. I’m afraid that I’ll make a mistake and they’ll know. They’ll only have to look at me and they’ll know. I cannot risk you, even if you hate me for it._

“You have always been the bravest one of us, Aziraphale.”

“I’m not...I can’t...I’m not like you. I still have something to lose.” _I don’t have much to lose but I have something, I have you. You don’t know what they would do if they caught us._

"I have _everything _to lose,” Crowley hissed, and there was the weight of millennia of waiting behind his words. _Don’t you understand, angel, you’re everything I have?_

He snapped his fingers and the room was illuminated again, the bright light suffocating them after the comforting blanket of darkness. What did it matter now anyway? The spell was broken. Now it was back to bickering and misunderstandings for however long it took for Aziraphale to come to him again.

The angel sat up, rubbing the heel of one hand against his eyes as he sighed. Everything had shifted, that eternal tightrope walk between magic and hopelessness. They were on opposite sides again, pulled apart by expectation, by his own cowardice, by Crowley’s wilful ignorance about every horror that awaited them if their secret was discovered.

“We can’t carry on like this.” Crowley’s voice was thin, exhaustion dripping from every word. It weighed on him, being relegated to a secret, something dirty, something that had to stay in the shadows. He ignored it as best he could but it was always there, whispering that it was all he deserved, all a demon was worthy of. _They were right, _it would tell him when he was at his darkest, _they were right about you, all of them. He could never love you, not really. Look at him. Good. Sweet. Trusting and loyal and everything that matters. Look at you. Broken. Useless. Evil._

_“_What do you want me to do, Crowley? Tell them? Oh, Gabriel, Michael, quick minute of your time. Remember the enemy you sent me to vanquish? The adversary? Funniest thing happened over the last few, I don’t know, _millennia_, seem to have found myself…”

“Oh, no, of course not, Aziraphale. Upset _Gabriel_? How could you? Heaven think of you as anything other than the _perfect_ principality? Doesn’t bear thinking about it, does it? Keep me waiting for you, chasing you around and around the entire bloody _world_. I’ll come running, of course I will, like a puppy, and you will kick me away every single time I get too close. And I’ll keep coming like the lost little dog I am every time you snap your fingers.”

“Stop it.” Aziraphale shrank away from him, felt that shame flare up. That was the worst part, how piercingly accurate every single word Crowley spoke was. Each one an arrow, each one perfectly aimed. “Stop…twisting this into something it isn’t. I have to keep you safe. If they knew they would…”

“They would _what_, angel?” He stood up, threw his arms open as he stalked away from the bed. “They’ve already destroyed me. What else can they do?”

_They could tear us apart. They would tear us apart. They would destroy you in ways they hadn’t even begun to dream up when you fell. You have no idea what heaven has become and I won’t ever let you find out._

Crowley stared at him with fire in his eyes, waiting, always waiting for him to say something. To do something. Anything. But he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t. Aziraphale shook his head, grabbed for his shirt and turned away, hastily buttoning it up, folding back into himself again. It was cruel, yes, but it was safe.

“What do you want me to say, Crowley…” He stood in the doorway, reached for Crowley one last time, his palm pressed to the demon’s heart as he tried to take away the hurt he found there, the guilt and the shame and the desire only to be love and be loved. Crowley caught his hand at the last second, shook his head. _No, angel, you will not take this from me._ He pushed his hand away and then the door slammed closed between them. Aziraphale waited for the sound of footsteps padding away before he rested his head against the wood, whispering words into the night, speaking them aloud for the first time. “…that I’m in love with you? Because I am. Desperately. Even though it’s hopeless.”


	3. Your Devils (And Your Deeds)

**1741\. Marrakesh, Morocco.**

Drinking himself to discorporation wasn’t sensible, Aziraphale knew that. But what good had being sensible ever done him? It was being sensible that had led him there, red-eyed and heartbroken, unable to see anything in his mind other than the look of desolation twisting into anger on Crowley’s face as he’d slammed the door between them.

The only way, Aziraphale reasoned, to purge that memory from his consciousness was with wine. Reckless amounts of it, consumed without moderation. Two glasses had turned into five. And then two bottles became three as the moon had dipped close to the horizon but still, but _still_, he couldn’t forget. He could never forget, not really, not where Crowley was concerned. The demon was so deeply wound into the stardust of his own soul that nothing short of hellfire was likely to tear the memories away from him. Aziraphale was dramatic. But he wasn’t that dramatic. No, that was more Crowley’s role. The dramatic one, the passionate one, the dreamer. The beautiful, brilliant dreamer who could create worlds with nothing more than candlelight and his own whispered words.

_The coward_, Aziraphale thought, _that’s my role_._ The cold, rigid coward. I am no angel, I do nothing to deserve the name. A being of love? I’ve held love in the palm of my hand for all of these years and yet I’m too afraid to do anything other than wait. Always waiting, always afraid._

He surrendered himself to the memories, let every one of them drip, drip, drip over him until he was drowning in them, suffocating under the weight of near enough six millennia of cowardice, of turning away, of turning his back on the one thing that was worth enduring an eternity of longing for.

He had been so close to saying yes, so close to giving into his heart after all of that time of running. One more moment, one more touch, and he would have closed his eyes, pulled Crowley to him and kissed his lips, finally, after all of those maddening years of lying and hiding and pretending that he wasn’t the demon’s, completely, a piece of his heart given away forever. It had been too close. He couldn’t slip like that again, however much he ached for it, however tempting it was, the idea of taking Crowley’s hand and saying _yes, I’ll run away with you, I’ll follow you wherever you go. Take me anywhere, I’m yours, always._

_Mother, forgive me, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be what you ask of me, what heaven asks of me. Please, Mother, show me how to be what you need. Help me to be strong, to be who I was created to be. Show me…_

“Now, now, you look like a smart gentleman, don’t you know you’ll never find answers at the bottom of a wine glass?”

Aziraphale looked up, blinked bleary eyes until the figure standing next to the bar came, slowly, into focus. Tall and willowy, with the straight-backed posture of a deep-rooted tree, the woman was dressed in a formless swathe of pale grey fabric that had collected dust from the road outside, staining the dress with the colour of earth. Hair the colour of rust had greyed with age, leaving tumbling locks appearing to shimmer in the candlelight, while sharp green eyes were softened by branching lines in the outer corners, narrowed slightly as they looked from the empty wine bottles to Aziraphale’s hands, trembling against the edge of the bar.

“I’m not looking for an answer,” Aziraphale slurred, bracing his head against the palm of one hand. He looked across at the woman, couldn’t summon the mental focus to decide if he was comforted or irritated by her presence. “I’m trying to forget the question.”

“Yes, very _deep_.” She uttered a little laugh, the sound pouring into the air as rich as velvet against skin. She settled down on the stool next to Aziraphale. “Nobody should drink away heartbreak alone.”

“I’m not heartbroken.” The angel sat up, curling a protective hand around his almost-empty glass as if it was as precious as Crowley himself. “I’m just…stressed. About work. Yes. Trying times in the corporate world.”

_That should put a stop to proceedings, who wants to hear a stranger complain about their job? _He turned back to the woman, fixing a perfectly innocent smile on his face. She sat there, eyes travelling slowly over his hair, his face, his hands, as if she was reminding herself of something. One hand was slowly aerating a thick glass filled with a generous measure of a very serious-looking spirit.

“Trying times indeed,” she said, eyes unblinking as she traced the outline of his left ear. “Tell me, little one, what brought you here?”

“Work. I, er, travel a lot.”

“Oh? That sounds very intriguing. Indulge a curious old woman, what is it that you do?” She looked at his face again, green eyes meeting blue, a galaxy of freckles peppering cheeks that lifted in a smile.

_I try to make this place a home, _he thought, struck by the realisation that he had never been asked the question before, had never had to try and distill an angel’s role into a single bite-sized morsel. “I fix things that are broken.”

She smiled, looked away as she swallowed the contents of her glass in one gulp, pushing the empty vessel back across the bar for a refill. “That sounds like a very honourable calling. And what is it about fixing broken things that has made you seek solace through the noble art of inebriation?”

Aziraphale sighed, tongue gripped between his teeth as he closed his eyes and whispered the closest version of the truth he had ever dared share with another soul. What did it matter? He was a thousand lifetimes away from heaven and Crowley would be halfway around the world by dawn. “I’m scared the price of following my heart will break the one I love beyond repair.”

The woman nodded, a slow movement filled with understanding. Solidarity, perhaps. “Everything in this world, everything that matters, it all comes back to love, my little one. Please don’t fear it.”

“It’s not love I fear. He’s the only thing I don’t fear.” He paused for a moment, a second to chastise himself for the folly of honesty, despising his cowardice more and more with every cutting truth he breathed at this stranger. “It’s…everything else. This _place_ wasn’t meant for love like ours.”

“Let me guess, you’re from different worlds.”

The angel shrugged, ordered another bottle of wine, then turned his attention back to her, leaning close enough he could drop his voice. He rolled his eyes, a pre-emptive acknowledgement of his own cliched devotion to the forbidden. “I’m afraid I’m going to lead him into something that destroys us both. It’s been almost six thou-…it’s been a long time, a great many years. We should have lost each other a thousand times but something always brings us back to each other. And I am so _weak _for him. His eyes in the candlelight, his voice in the darkness, the way he says my name when we’re alone…”

He let his eyes drift closed, disappeared back into the memory of that night, Crowley’s fingers pressed to his chest, the demon’s lips leaving a path of hellfire across his skin. He heaved out a breath of desire, opened his eyes to find himself in the bar, a glass of wine in one hand, a stranger next to him. She inclined her glass towards him, encouraging him to continue unwinding the spooled thoughts in his mind.

“No matter, though. No matter if it’s love. It’s forbidden. It’s wrong.” Aziraphale peered down into the scarlet depths of his wine. Crowley’s wine, really. He had always favoured the bold earthiness of red, while Aziraphale favoured something a little lighter. Fitting, of course. “So they say.”

“Love is the only thing that can never be wrong. So they say.” When she laughed it was a wistful sound, a memory of a time when the world was a gentle thing, freshly-formed and soft. “Perhaps my _they_ is wiser than yours.”

“I should spend more time with yours and less time with mine.” He stopped himself then, placing a hand on her cool forearm in apology. “Listen to me, you came here for a drink and all you found is a lovesick coward waxing lyrical about his devils.”

“We all have devils, little one.”

Aziraphale raised his glass and knocked it against the woman’s, his emitting a high, singular note, hers appearing to sing out an echoing symphony. It annoyed him more than it should have, that even his wine glass was one-note in its simplicity.

“Please.” He gestured to the space between them. “Don’t let me keep you, you’ve been kind enough to listen to an old fool’s drunken ramblings for long enough.”

She chuckled, pushing the thin skin of one cheek up until the lines around her eye deepened. “Which one of us is the old fool? A few more years until you catch up with me, I’d gamble.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, my good woman.” A smile for a joke that only he could possibly understand. “Now, please, tell me, what brings you to beautiful Morocco?”

“Just a quick visit. I like to pop in every so often, keep an eye on things. Always make time to stop for a drink.”

“Nectar of the gods,” Aziraphale mumbled, unsteadily pouring himself another glass and raising it in her direction. “And what do you do, may I ask?”

She shrugged, paused to wave one hand dismissively in the air. “I'm an architect. A wanderer. An artist, on the good days. Tired, most of the time.”

“A woman after my own heart.” It had been a long time, Aziraphale realised, since he had made the acquaintance of a stranger who had so quickly put him at ease. It came with the territory of navigating life in heaven, being able to see to the core of somebody and feel out their intentions, and he found no malice within this woman, nothing to fear, to hide from. In another lifetime she could have been a friend.

“Tell me more about that heart, your devil, the one that tempts you so. I never could resist a love story.”

He glanced across at her, found one foot drawn up on the barstool she sat on, cheek pressed to one knee as she gazed back, eyes sparkling with interest and, perhaps, whisky.

“Have you ever loved somebody for eternity before you knew that’s what it was? I told you I’m an old fool. Very old and so very foolish. He is…he is everything I’m not. He’s indescribably brave, he would make you laugh until you can barely breathe, but he would make you furious too, oh the arguments we have had. Fire in his eyes. If I’m honest, sometimes I press his buttons just to see it, that passion, every time I wonder if that might be the moment where we just… You should see the things he is capable of. You said you’re an artist, on the good days, he is too, deep in his soul, it’s the very core of him. Creation, beauty. This world is…it’s too small for somebody like him. And he makes me feel that way too, as if there could be something special within me just by being around him.” Lost to the seduction of an emotional outpouring, getting to speak words aloud he had said only to himself for so many years, Aziraphale found himself leaning closer, biting back a smile. “Handsome too. So handsome. It’s not…I would love him whichever face he wore, but you know, it helps. Those eyes, honestly, if they’re the last thing I ever see, well, what a way to go.”

The angel raised both eyebrows, sucking in a breath and letting it escape his lips as a low whistle.

“Handsome devil, I should have known.”

“Oh, rather less of the, er…” He trailed off, waving his hands in two tight circles around his head. “_Horn_ situation than our satanic friend. So they say, of course.”

The woman barked a laugh into the air, the creak of a door in the wind. “Mmm, so they say. Important things, those horns. After all, what would the Great Beast be without them? Just one more very angry man.”

“And God knows there are already enough of those keeping us on our toes. Let’s keep him where he belongs, shall we?”

“I think that sounds very wise.” One more toast. One more refill for both parties. “This life is too short to deny yourself the things that make you happy. I promise you, nothing bad can come from love.”

“You should try telling that to-”

She held up a hand, knocked back the last mouthful of whisky and fixed Aziraphale with a stare as her words tumbled out, as if she wanted to say them as much as she wanted the angel to hear them. “I’m not _telling_ anybody but you, here, tonight. Let yourself love, little one. Follow your heart, follow what makes you happy. It is a wild and wonderful journey, this…existence, but it isn’t always kind, not to any of us. Where you find happiness, hold onto it, don’t let it slip away because of fear. Seek it out, even the tiniest shreds of it. You can find it in anything, in the stars, the trees, in whisky and wine, in the last eyes you ever want to see. Don’t wait for tomorrow, for the time to be right. Everything’s eventual. Even love. _Especially_ love.”

“Everything’s eventual.” Aziraphale repeated the phrase, drained his wine glass and slammed it back against the bar as if an epiphany had just bloomed in his brain. He grabbed for the woman’s hand, eyes wide as he scrambled down from his bar stool. When he spoke again his words were quieter, a confession. “I wanted to heal him, to fix it. I tried to…I tried to take it away from him. I thought it would be a kindness, to release him from the burden of loving me.”

“You couldn’t have, not even you, a _fixer_. Love isn’t something to be healed. It isn’t a sickness, Aziraphale. You are everything you were ever supposed to be, both of you.” She cupped his face in both hands, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before nodding towards the door. “Go on. You’ll find each other again. You will always find your way back together.”

Aziraphale stumbled a few paces towards the door, looked over his shoulder to find her sitting there watching him leave, a smile on her face that he couldn’t begin to unravel, not that day, not even centuries later. On the ground between them, the first beams of sunlight poured through the open door. She glanced down at them, then spoke the last words he ever heard her say, punctuated them with a wry little chuckle. “Let there be light.”

The angel followed her gaze down, lost himself to the specks of dust dancing in the first streaks of dawn. Beautiful. One tiny shred of happiness, just like she’d said. He looked up to thank the stranger for what she had done that night, for giving him what felt a lot like permission, but found only an empty bar stool. If it hadn’t been for the whisky glass sitting on top of the bar he might have wondered if she’d ever really been there at all.

***

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called breathlessly, fist pounding against the little red door. “Crowley, it’s me. I need to talk to you. Please. I’m…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been a coward. Please let me in.”

There was no answer.

Aziraphale looked up at the sky, saw that great stretch of pale pink light as the sun beat away the darkness. Dawn had given way to morning.

Of course there was no answer. The demon had gone. After all, what reason did he have to stay?

_Aziraphale the Weak. Aziraphale the Slow. _The angel closed his eyes, heard the echo of heaven’s nicknames in his mind. The cruellest twist of fate is that they might have been the truest words he’d ever heard leave Gabriel’s lips. _I am everything you ever said I was. Too weak. Too slow. And now he’s gone._

“Crowley?” the angel whispered fruitlessly, easing the door open and slipping inside, finding nothing but silence within.

It was there, still, the essence of him; the feeling of gentle warmth that Aziraphale had begun to think of as safety, as home. He paced across the room, shoes clicking against the tiles, snapped his fingers until teardrop flames flickered at the tip of each candle. _Let there be light, indeed._

“Such a fool,” he murmured, fingertips trailing across the table, eyes closing as he pictured the demon sitting there, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the stem of a wine glass pinched between his fingers. Had he sat there and watched the moon give way to the sun, watched the stars fade in the dawn light? Or had he left under the cover of darkness, stalking away from the city to his next destination, to London? What would he find when he got there? _Peace, hopefully_, the angel thought. _Will you walk to the park on the quiet days? Will you feed the ducks, will you think of me?_

He dropped the bouquet of roses onto the table, pulled one stem free and brought the lush red flower to his nose, inhaling deeply. There it was, bound forever to the sensual, rich scent, the memory of the night before, of fingers locked together beneath the sheets, of that fantasy life of joyful domesticity where their biggest concern was what to do with the library of books that would outgrow their home long before their love ever would.

Aziraphale stood alone in the empty room, thought of what the woman with the unknowable smile and the world in her eyes had told him.

_You will always find your way back together._

“I love you, Crowley.” Though there was no audience to hear his confession, Aziraphale spoke the words as dearly as if the demon was still sprawled on the bed, lazy smile on his face, passion in his eyes. “I don’t want to be afraid of it any more. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to hide it, to hide you. I want everything we’ve built on these nights when we’ve shut out the world. This world, this _heaven_, its judgement… You were right, my love, of course you were. You always have been from the very beginning. I will always keep you safe, I swear to you. One day, my love, I will take you so far away from this wicked world. One day.”

Through his tears, Aziraphale smiled.

_No, not one day. Not someday. Soon._

He sank down on the bed, pressed his cheek to the pillow and found the warm whisky and amber scent of Crowley lingering on the soft fabric. He closed his eyes, slid an arm out into the great aching space where they had laid together hours before, and whispered the words one more time. “I love you. I love you beyond reason. I will follow it, follow you, wherever it may lead us.”

And then, as easily as he had fallen in love with temptation, Aziraphale fell into a dream about that one day, soon, when an angel and a demon would stop running, when they would build a place that they could call home.


End file.
